Painted Wings, Silver Snow
by mazie
Summary: It is raining when she finally wakes. Alone, terrified, she reels from a nightmare. She tries to call out a name, but she struggles to remember it the moment it catches in her throat. Amnesia, they diagnose. [Nikolina/Anastasia AU]
1. flashes of fire, the echo of screams

Snow drifts over the windows of the ballroom. It looks cold outside, and all Alina wants to do is run out into the winter night and feel the snow fall on her face. It's a contrast to the warm and lively interior of the fete. Then again, it won't compare to her plush blankets and pillows back in her bedroom — where she _should_ be like all the other young Grisha.

Except, well, Alina isn't like the other young Grisha.

"Would you care for a dance, _solnyshka_?"

Alina turns to face the invitation; only one person in Ravka calls her that. _Sunshine_. A smile brightens up on her face.

"Aleksander!" She greets him in a whisper with a laugh that blossomed from her smile. The Darkling returns that smile, though not as brightly. Perhaps he doesn't approve of her throwing his name around so casually. Perhaps it's just his age. The price you pay for being over a hundred years old. Besides, no one can match the brightness of a smile from a child, all the more if it's a smile from Ravka's Sun Summoner.

She didn't expect the Darkling to arrive in time for the winter fete, really. Her first winter fete too. She knows that Aleksander thinks the fete is a waste of Grisha time. It means much to a ten-year-old girl to have him there.

Alina runs up and tackles him with a hug, or as much as her dress will allow.

The Darkling chuckles. Alina wraps her small arms around his frame. "You've grown, Alina," he says in marvel. He places his palm on his torso where his fingers meet the edge of her jaw. "Weren't you only this tall when I last saw you? What have they been feeding you? You're not meant to be this tall."

Alina's eyes flare a little. "I'm gonna grow taller, you know."

"One day," he agrees, amusement twinkling in his gray eyes. "Maybe."

She almost kicks him in the shin. The dress gets in the way.

The Darkling clears his throat. "You still haven't answered me about that dance, _solnyshka_." He outstretches a palm for her and she takes it, as she's been taught to do. This is, after all, her first winter fete and she's damn well going to do it all right.

"I would be honored, _moi soverennyi_."

Her hands are too small in his, but they lead to the center of the ballroom. Her party _kefta_ isn't as dazzling as those of the guests and nobles, what with their shining jewels and stunning embroidery, but Alina adores her _kefta_ of Summoner's blue. It catches the light at every turn. The golden threads shimmer under the moonlight, though Alina might also be helping it along.

They dance for a while, but eventually they both drift away into the fete. They'll meet up again later, for the Grisha's demonstration. The demo is the only reason why she was allowed to entertain herself at the fete to begin with.

She dances in circles with the other older Grisha who lead her classes, or even the young children of the party guests. Her smile is ever constant throughout the night.

Alina finds herself gleefully laughing. (As young as she is, that isn't a particularly difficult task to accomplish really.)

Some Ravkan noble's young son is spinning her around by her elbow, while whispering little jokes about every one of the guests. She laughs herself silly dancing with him.

Her dance partner passes into another's hands and she yelps with joy and surprise as a Grisha woman in red lifts her up and spins her around.

Alina can do this forever. Everything seems positively alive, the snow glistening in the bright moonlight, making the palace garden look like a shining silver lake.

She feels warm and happy and just a little dizzy. Oh, how jealous the other children will be tomorrow once she recounts the tales of tonight to them. She stops to recollect herself. It's almost time for the demonstration.

Aleksander is present to deliver his usual showmanship and theatrics, and this time he has with him the little Sun Summoner to treat the guests with an even better show. Alina's presence will make this fete one to remember for the ages.

"Are you tired already, _solnyshka_?" The Darkling finds her by the frost-framed windows. She's only just retreated from mingling the crowd. "There's still the demonstration for the guests. You can't be tired already."

Alina's yawn betrays her.

His mouth presses into a thin smile. "After the demonstration, you'll be as energetic as ever." The Darkling offers his arm to lead her to the stage at the far wall of the ballroom. "It's why we never let the Grisha children take part of it. They'll be a trouble to put to sleep."

A noise from the outside startles them off their path. Not only Alina and Aleksander, but every guest and Grisha at the fete. Maybe even the Grisha in the Little Palace, if she can guess by the loudness of the sound.

 _Crash._

It comes again, closer.

 _Crash._

The noise surrounds them, coming from all sides with a steady pulse like a heartbeat. Is this how the Corporalki feel?

"Fjerdans!" someone yells, and the atmosphere dies in the ballroom. The softness in Aleksander's eyes quickly hardens to stone. His cold hands clasp Alina's tightly.

"Go to your room, _solnyshka_." It doesn't sound soft or affectionate, like it did earlier. This is not Aleksander anymore, but the true commander of the Second Army, the Darkling that Ravka knows.

It is not only Fjerdans who arrive, but a collection of people in Ravkan peasant roughspun. They might be Fjerdans in disguise, but somehow Alina knows it is more than that.

This is no invasion. This is a revolution.

The gatecrashers enter the room with ease. Were there no guards, or were they too easily overcome? Had they been lulled into incompetence by the usual presence of peasants at the gates?

At the Fjerdans' sides, massive hounds with smiling teeth.

Not just any type of Fjerdan. It could just be an army of port-side fishermen, for all Alina knew. Right now, she wishes they were an army of port-side fishermen.

 _Drüskelle_ , Alina realizes.

No, not just _drüskelle_ ¸ she thinks to herself. _I have no fishermen, but Ravkan farmers instead._

The Fjerdans have been whispering into the ears of the people.

"Leave," the commander speaks in halted, accented Ravkan. "We are only here for the witches."

The guests don't need to be told twice it seems. More than half the crowd disperses out the doors, the only people allowed to pass. Alina doesn't know if any of the other guests tried to stay. It is the Grisha who stand their ground. A Summoner, an Inferni, tries to sneak past and blend in with the other guests in deep blue. A wolf snaps him back into the crowd, and that is the end of escape.

"Alina," Aleksander says in a whisper. "I told you to go."

His pale hands clap softly, though it sounds like thunder in Alina's ears. He casts a rippling pool of darkness, and she understands.

 _Go_ , he told her.

It all happens fast from there, or perhaps it had been happening already and Alina just wasn't paying attention. The darkness spreads and bleeds, and for once she does nothing to stop it.

Light may be her element, but the darkness is her friend.

She lets go of the Darkling's hand and dashes across the corridor. She knows the way back to the Little Palace. She has to know the way.

Her beautiful blue _kefta_ flutters wildly around her as she rushes away from the havoc and the Grisha in the ballroom.

Alina thinks of what she sees before the darkness bleeds into the room. She won't have her light with her after all.

In the corner of her eye, the finest _keftas_ and a show that never went on. Grisha. Some shackled, some not. She hears the sound of rifles and gunfire and the crumpling of bodies on the ground. Are they helpless or are there Grisha putting up a fight?

As for Alina, what can she do? She's a child. All she's done is nothing more than parlor tricks. She can't fight. Not yet.

"Go," she hears Aleksander's voice again — in her head, maybe. Where is he now? He blends into the darkness far too well.

An Inferni's fire flares in the dark.

"Run, Alina! As fast as you can." A voice yells somewhere, but she feels it resonate in her head. Is it her own voice? It very well could be. The voice tells her to run, so she does.

She runs in the darkness. She runs and trips, stumbles and goes. She runs as hard and as fast as her body would allow, heart beating fast as her feet thunders on the floor. Then her little heartbeat becomes louder and louder, and Alina realizes it is more than just her heart.

She presses her small body against the wall as the invisible march of soldiers passes her by, followed by the thundering patter of Ravkan feet. All she hears is the drone of her heart and the footsteps around her, and nothing more than the rushing of her blood in her ears.

Alina follows along the wall, the darkness weaning the further she gets from the ballroom. She needs to make it to the Little Palace. She needs to be invisible. She needs, she needs, she needs, she wants. She wants to be in her bedroom, snuggled into her quilted blankets, warm and sleeping soundly. She wants to be safe.

Truly her first winter fete has become a memorable one.

Alina keeps going. The weight on her foot shifts to the other and the Little Palace erupts in flames before her, shining away the shadows she'd used for cover.

Fire. The Little Palace is on fire. Fire shouldn't be a problem. The palace is Fabrikator-craft, and the Etherealki are all within their powers to put the fires out, but the fires don't go no matter how long Alina stares. Alina is frozen in place, watching it.

There's no more going to her bedroom, or snuggling under quilted blankets. No more safe... not in the Little Palace, not in Os Alta.

Aleksander told her to run. She runs, outside instead towards the now burning Little Palace. Her feet feel the cold the moment she steps outside to the snow. She curses herself softly for thinking to wear her finest shoes. She would give anything to get her winter boots from her bedroom in the Little Palace. She doesn't need the snuggling or the safety. Right now, she just wants to go her bedroom and get the warmest and comfiest clothes she has and go. She could escape the rioters, but it will be the cold that takes her if she isn't careful.

Alina holds her _kefta_ tighter against her small body, its fur lining keeping her warm. She tries to summon a small web of light to warm herself up, but it's only starlight that answers her calls, fainter and colder than the sun. She hears yelling from behind her, fading the further she gets; Fjerdan, a language and a people she can't understand.

 _Run, Alina_.

She makes for the gates, the slumped bodies of the guards against them. She never stops. She runs through the snow, in the cold of the night, putting as much distance between the ballroom and her as she can.

She runs through the rest of Os Alta, past a lake, and through another town, through a forest; nothing but running. She doesn't know where she's going, just as long as she runs. Just as long as it's away from the ballroom and the fires and the sound of heavy chains.

The cold night air whips at her as the snow tries to gnaw her _kefta_. She pushes through it all, the hunger, the cold, the pain. She's sure her ankle is twisted, and yet she still runs. Her body and mind are screaming, yelling, snapping at her resolve. They yell whispers in her head, to stop, to go, to turn back, to die with the other Grisha, to scream for help, to seek revenge. She would, perhaps one day, but for now there is only running.

Alina doesn't know how far she made it before she collapses. The last of her memories are only of running. It's almost dawn. She trips by the road, her ankle swelling, her feet aching, her head crashing to the hard to the ground.

Her brain slams against her skull and everything goes black.

The Sun Summoner is gone.


	2. stay, i pray you

A young girl is found on the side of the road, just a walk past Balakirev. There are tracks everywhere, and a fresh inch of snow. Cold, dark, a killing wind blowing harshly through the trees. A pair of brother and sister find her on their way to Kribirsk. They carry her unconscious body into the back of their caravan, out of curiosity and concern.

They take her to the orphanage just south of the Fold, she is mumbling and delirious throughout the ride. They do their best to patch her up, or at least make sure she doesn't bleed out on the road, feeling just a little bit better of themselves for their charity. The estate is the best place for her, with the orphans of the border wars and refugees plucked from distant towns.

The caretakers there stitch her up, replenish her blood and tend to her blistering feet and wounded head as best they can, but without a Grisha Healer, they can only do so much. At the very least, she is alive.

They whisper among themselves, that it was a miracle that she hadn't frozen to death in the cold. They talk of the gown she wore when she was brought to the orphanage, deep blue and embroidered with gold. Maybe some noble's daughter, a runaway countess.

Even so, most all the nobles in Ravka went to Os Alta for the winter.

They can barely guess how a noble's daughter managed to get all the way from Os Alta to Balakirev, but in her small body, she had somehow managed.

She remains unconscious for days, incoherent mutters between unseen dreams, even so far as a name.

 _Alina_ , she murmurs in her sleep. _Run, Alina._

It is raining when she finally wakes. Alone, terrified, she reels from a nightmare. She tries to call out a name, but she struggles to remember it the moment it catches in her throat.

Amnesia, they diagnose.

She asks them if they know her name. The woman at her bedside smiles sadly and replies with a 'no'. They give her a name anyway. _Alina_ , they say, a name she murmured once in her sleep, feverish and dreaming. They're not sure if it's hers, but it's a common enough name. There isn't a single town in Ravka without an Alina, named after the Sun Summoner and Ravka's hope of healing.

Alina _._ She likes the way it sounds. It sounds beautiful. It sounds right.

* * *

The revolution impacted Ravka greatly, changed it even. Alina guesses it must have impacted her too, from the sorrowful looks her caretakers and teachers as well as the fragments of memory she manages to pull from her dreams.

She assumes, like everyone else, that her parents were nobles. After news of the attack on Os Alta broke out, it became the clearest and most possible answer. Her parents were some duke or duchess, and they were there on the night of the infamous winter fete, where the Grisha power of Ravka was leveled, stripped of luxury and lives. How else can they explain her manner, her education, the snow-bitten gown the widows say she was found in.

The teachers think it's the trauma that led Alina to forget. Her family was killed along with the Lantsovs and the other nobility who refused to obey, and her mind had chosen to forget to deal with the grief.

It still doesn't feel like the right answer, but it's the only explanation they have. She can't find anything in her mind that confirms or denies it. She finds only her dreams, calling in the night.

Alina dreams of darkness and light, of a silver moonlit pool and of dancing in the snow. She can't grasp for further. Her past is only a light at the end of the hall and she can't reach for it. Home is a few moments of sleep away but never closer.

Keramzin does its best to give Alina that home, though she doesn't really remember any other to compare it to. It gives her a present where she can't find a past.

She has her share of chores and lessons in classrooms, though the teachers preferred more to sit by the fire in the colder days. Bored, trapped indoors, but, safe and far from the revolution in Os Alta. A boy just about Alina's age arrives in Keramzin within weeks of her. They have their share of chores and classroom hours together, stealing away into the disused rooms of the estate.

His eyes are blue like the summer sky and his arrival feels like spring. He is short and stocky but always smiling. Alina is different. She can't find it in herself to smile like he does. Ghosts of her past linger in the back of her head, nameless and faceless and taunting; but her past and the emptiness of it do not matter to him.

The seasons come and go, and Alina's dreams become just dreams, echoes of her past that she's long since given up on reaching. The summer comes, and the Duke Keramsov returns to the estate, with stories of the fete and Os Alta in winter. His eyes glance over Alina for only a second, then he excuses himself to his study.

Winter seems to be a kinder time than the summer. Their chores and lessons grow longer with the days, more stifling with the heat. When the summer heat is at its worst, Mal and Alina escape to the woods, or swim in the nearby muddy creek, or they lie for hours in the meadow they call theirs, watching the sun pass from overhead.

Alina and Mal have spent near a good year at Keramzin when the Grisha examiners come. They are huddled behind a column in the gallery above the sitting room. Ana Kuya, the Duke's housekeeper, is there in her bird-like black dress, talking to the cook.

"It isn't something to look forward to anymore," Ana Kuya tells the cook. "I expect only the worst for the Grisha among the children."

The cook leans casually on the doorway, splotches of tonight's dinner staining her apron. "Would you rather they were raised as soldiers with the King's draft?"

"Over being treated as witches and tried as criminals? Yes. They're _children_."

They talk of an older Ravka that Alina doesn't remember, days when Grisha were prized among people. They talk of Lantsov kings and bastard princes, and times that Alina doesn't know.

The front door opens and the chilling new winter air rushes into the room. The cook wrings her hands on her apron. "I best be getting back to that stew now, Ana." The housekeeper nods and begins to pour tea from the samovar. "You never know. The new examiners might be better to deal with than witches."

Mal and Alina peer through the railings of the balcony. A tall blonde man, and a much shorter one with salt-and-pepper hair have made their way to the sitting room. The shorter man sits by the fire while the other ambles about the room.

"Only two?" The shorter man asks, his accent gruff as if it is the first time he has used his voice in a while and the winter has stolen away its depth.

"Yes," says Ana Kuya. "There have been less and less coming with the border wars ending. A boy and a girl, both around ten, we think."

The burly man stops pacing. "You think?" The words are rough, as if Ravkan isn't his first language.

"He must be Fjerdan," Mal whispers to her.

Alina nods. A Fjerdan. A shiver runs down her spine, but she can't explain it.

"Yes, well. When the parents are deceased…"

The man sitting by the fire waves his hand dismissively. He doesn't seem to be as nervous around the Fjerdan man as Ana Kuya is. "Understood. My companion here is not as familiar with this institution as we Ravkans are. Duke Keramsov's interest in the welfare of the common people is something to be admired."

"Our Duke is a very great man."

The two children listening from the balcony meet each other's gaze. Their benefactor, Duke Keramsov, was a celebrated war hero and a known friend to the people; his estate a home to orphans and widows of war. He was there the night Os Alta fell and he returned to tell the story, but he doesn't do so in front of the children and the orphans. Ana Kuya tells that the Duke has known enough about loss.

"Now, about those two children?" The Ravkan mentions. "What are they like?"

Ana Kuya's lips press into a fine line. "The girl has a talent for drawing, and the boy is most at home in the meadow and the woods."

"Yes, but what are they _like_?" He asks again.

The housekeeper's expression betrays nothing. "They are about as natural as two children can be. They are undisciplined, contrary, far too attached to each other—"

"Where are these children?" The Fjerdan asks.

Mal helps Alina up from the balcony floor as Ana Kuya's voice lashes out for them like a whip. "Malyen! Alina! Come down here at once!"

The two children make their way down the narrow spiral staircase at the end of the gallery. When they reach the bottom, the Fjerdan man casts a hard glance at the Ravkan and speaks with authority. "Fetch the _drüsje_ from the sleigh."

The other man leaves out the front door to fetch… something. The Fjerdan, edge still intact, gestures them to come forward. They glance at each other briefly.

The front door opens again and the Ravkan man enters with someone else. _Drüsje_ , the Fjerdan had called her. Her eyes, which might have once been the most beautiful shade of green, are glassy and blank. Her hair is sullen and streaked with gray, ratted and in clumps. Her hands are shackled together in front of her.

The tall blond Fjerdan turns to Ana Kuya. "You may leave us now." The old housekeeper leaves, though she hovers at the door for a few seconds before finally disappearing into the kitchen.

"Wait!" Mal exclaims. "What happens if we're Grisha? What happens to us?"

He looks down on them, then shares a look at the Ravkan man.

"That is not for us to say," the Ravkan shares.

Alina isn't paying much attention to them. Her eyes are looking at the shackled woman. She can tell that she might have been beautiful, though her face has sunken and her breath is shaky. She wears tattered red robes with light embroidery pulled and torn in places. She carries the clothes barely, as if it weighs like lead on her back. Tentatively, Alina tries to reach forward.

Her eyes snap to Alina and Alina's hand falters in shock.

"You're here," the woman whispers. Her voice is soft, weak, audible only to Alina. The other men are too busy talking with Mal to notice.

Alina's eyebrows knit in surprise and confusion. "What happened to you?"

"What happened to you?" She mirrors the question back to Alina. Her eyes gloss over with something Alina can't quite recognize.

The woman reaches forward to grasp Alina's face, but the palm never touches, only hovers over her cheek. Alina steps back and the woman follows, but the chains at her feet hold her back. She looks… broken, held together only by the chains that bind her. If she's freed, Alina feels like the woman might just fall apart.

The towering Fjerdan turns to the sound of clanking chains and catches Alina looking at the red-robed woman. "Do not fear it. The _drüsje_ is subdued and can do you no harm like this."

The _drüsje_ , as the Fjerdan calls her, casts a dark glare at the men before returning her soft gaze to Alina.

" _Drüsje_." Alina feels the syllables on her lips. They taste foreign, wrong.

The woman gives the barest shake of her head and a whisper soft enough for only Alina to hear. "Grisha."

 _Grisha_.

One of the men pull the chains back and the Grisha woman shuffles to where they direct her.

"Despite her crimes, this one has been pardoned for her abilities," the Ravkan man explains. "Come here," he gestures for them to move closer.

Reluctantly, they do so. They stand close to each other, Mal's hand reaching out to clasp Alina's. The Fjerdan man harshly shoves the Grisha toward them and Alina winces. This isn't how people are meant to be treated.

The woman in red takes Mal's free hand, closing her hand around his wrist. Mal only stares at the place where the Grisha's hand meets his. Their hands fall. The men watch tentatively as she shakes her head and moves to Alina.

She takes Alina's wrist gently, her touch warm against Alina's skin, but she feels like there is more to it. Alina gazes up at the woman's lifeless green eyes, now alive, burning with fear.

Alina stills for a moment, the woman's hands clamping down tighter and tighter around the girl's wrist. She feels a gentle coaxing, a reassuring whisper, reluctant.

It whispers, unraveling and shattering something inside her. It builds slowly, slowly. Alina can feel its faint pulse from within her. It feels warm like fire flowing in her veins, and suddenly it stops.

The woman lets go of Alina's wrist in one sharp motion. A moment, a beat. She shakes her head, her eyes still alive, still afraid; Alina only feels empty.

The two men nod sagely to each other.

"Are you going to take us away?" Mal asks.

They shake their heads. "The results are as they should be. We won't be taking any of you away."

There is a sign of relief and Mal's sweaty palm letting go of Alina's. The examiners leave as quickly as they arrive, unsatisfied but unsurprised.

She can't get the sound of heavy chains or those burning green eyes out of her mind.

Later in the day, she and Mal sit perched on the windowsill like twin statues on a wall, and Alina can't help but ask. "Did you feel anything," she starts, "when she touched you?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing really. Just how cold her hand was."

Cold? Her touch was anything but cold.

"She creeps me out," Mal says. "I can't stop thinking about it. I was scared that she might eat us if she wasn't all chained up."

She pokes him in the stomach. "If she did eat children, she'll only eat _you_. The cook says witches like fat, meaty children over a sack of bones like me."

 _Witch_. The word doesn't sound right. The examiner was no witch. She was Grisha.

* * *

Alina stays in Keramzin while her dreams come and go, Mal along with them. He's always out in town, or exploring the woods. Alina stays inside, drawing or dreaming.

On a summer afternoon, they sit on the kitchen counters eating leftover peach tarts. They're far too grown to be doing this, yet here they are stealing sweets from the kitchen like they're still ten years old.

"I've enlisted to join the Army," he says between moments of silence.

Alina isn't surprised. Mal had always spent his days with the soldiers who passed over the nearby towns, telling stories from them to her. He has always had a clear fascination

She nibbles on her tart. Her eyes are fixed at the bottom of the plate, like she's counting the crumbs she's dropped. "How soon?"

 _How soon will you leave for Poliznaya?_

"Within the week." He answers in the same fashion. They can't even look at each other.

He finishes the last of his peach tart and finally their eyes meet. "Tonight," he corrects. "I'll pack my bags and then I'll be headed to the military encampment in Poliznaya."

Alina doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't really say a thing.

She helps him pack what little belonging he has into a rucksack, and joins him as he bids his goodbyes to Ana Kuya and the others in the estate. The war widows hold him by his cheeks and bid him wishes of good luck. One even goes so far as to hold him by the ear and make him promise to return.

After all the other farewells, Mal faces Alina, all his belongings slung over his back. He pulls her into a warm embrace. "Take care of yourself, Alina."

Suddenly everything feels so surreal. Should Alina be crying? She feels like she should be crying. Mal is _leaving_. She can't let him be another one of the things she has lost. And the worst is that she will remember him.

She steps away from him and fixes his collar. "I'm more worried about you," she jokes. "What would you do without me?"

"I haven't died yet."

"You fell out of a tree while I was sick in bed."

"Like I said, I haven't died yet."

Mal adjusts the rest of his clothes and Alina places her hands on his chest. There's a soft moment of silence, then he nods and bids goodbye. He doesn't even try to stay for supper.

Alina stays at the open doorway until Malyen Oretsev is barely a speck on the horizon.

She forces herself through the next few minutes, she forces herself through a first supper that Mal never made it in time for. She resolves to the fact that, for a while, she will just have to force herself through everything. Ana Kuya pulls her aside. They're in the sitting room, just the two of them.

"If I had known you would be like this, I wouldn't have let Malyen leave," Ana Kuya jokes. At least, Alina hopes it was a joke. "But then that means I'd still have to deal with the two of you. I believe it's time that you left us as well. All you've been is a thorn in my side since the day you were brought here."

Alina gapes at the statement, but doesn't argue. All the trouble she and Mal used to get into...

"How is it you don't have a clue of who you were before you came to us?"

It's been ten years, but Alina still can't answer the question.

"But... we actually do have a clue," Ana Kuya produces a parcel of black cloth and shows it to Alina. "This is all you had the day you were brought to us."

She unravels the package, revealing a deep blue dress embroidered in what looked to be actual gold, small and it didn't seem to be able to fit more than a child. Alina traces the embroidery with a light touch of her hand. "I... I don't understand."

"It's a _kefta_ ," Ana Kuya explains, "Though grander than the ones I used to see. It was once worn by the Grisha of the Second Army, so why is it that you came to us wearing a this days after the attack at the Grand Palace? You are no Grisha. The tests have seen to that. Who _are you_ , Alina?"

She is Alina the orphan. Is she more, is she less? She grazes her hand over the soft fabric of the _kefta_.

"You'll find your answers in Os Alta."

For that moment, she imagines another universe, another world, a moment where she'd gone with Mal to the Army. A moment where she chooses to find who she could be, never finding who she was. In that world, she is still Alina the orphan, but she is also Alina, the soldier from the First Army.

That world lasts for only a moment, and wherever that moment went, it left with Malyen Oretsev.


End file.
